Chapter 14

Thompson Falls, Montana

Sam pulled up in front of the house and killed the engine, his gaze moving over the house and around the gravelled turnaround. There wasn't much to see. Dean was sitting on the front steps, his head resting on his arms.

His brother lifted his head as he got out of the car and he drew in a deep breath when he saw the lack of expression on Dean's face.

"What happened?" Sam walked up to the steps, glancing at the front door. The dusting of sulphur was clearly visible over the threshold.

"Crowley." Dean stood up slowly, turning and walking through the door. He stopped just inside the hall, gesturing at the ceiling.

Following him in, Sam lifted his gaze, seeing the crack that ran from the outer wall across the vaulted stone to the back wall. The engraved demon traps had been broken apart, fractures running like spider webs through each and every one of them. Memory brought back another trap and ceiling; Bobby's ceiling and the blood circle broken by Meg's power. She'd never been that strong before – or since, he considered. He frowned slightly at the thought. Would she tell them how she'd managed it, he wondered?

"No one else has that kind of juice."

"You sure?" Sam stared down at the cracks criss-crossing the floor, splitting apart the trap that guarded the front door. "Meg broke through Bobby's trap, like this."

He looked up at Dean's silence, seeing his brother's brows drawn together.

"I mean, we never found out how she got that much power," he added, trying to drag out the disjointed memories of what the demon'd said when she'd been possessing him. New tricks, learned in Hell? Something like that?

"Then Crowley got a hold of whatever Meg had to do it?" Dean asked, his tone flat. "You think she'd tell us? Now?" He shook his head and turned for the living room. "Doesn't matter."

"I could call her," Sam suggested. "It might give us something."

Dean turned away dismissively. "There's sulphur and blood in the living room. I think that's where they caught her."

Sam nodded as he followed Dean into the large room. His brother's disconnection to the situation wasn't unexpected, but it was only a veneer. The wire-tight tension in Dean's frame was a more reliable indicator.

He looked around the living room carefully, taking note of the broken doors, the seeming random destruction, focussing closely on the blood spray; its direction, the amount. There were drag marks through a larger pool to the door.

"I don't think this is Ellie's blood," he said, staring at the coagulating pool then glancing at his brother. "There's a lot here, and they wouldn't have taken the body if the only purpose was to kill her."

But Dean already knew that, he thought, looking at the sharp nod he got in response. Had reconstructed the scene when he'd first gotten here, probably. It'd had some effect on his brother's state of mind, but not enough. And after the last couple of days, the ups and downs Dean'd sketched in for him, Sam thought, even his lifetime of self-discipline was stretched too thin to cope with much more.

Crowley's timing couldn't've been worse, he thought, turning around to survey the room again.

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

He'd come to the same conclusion himself when he'd gone inch by inch over the room, searching for any clue that would tell him what had happened, where she'd been taken. It didn't make him feel any better.

He could see Sam's worried looks, knew his little brother wasn't blind to the fact he was barely holding on. Inside, the walls were bulging, pulsing with a desire to run rampantly out of control and start killing whatever demons he could find. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hang on to the restraint he had. It was only there because he knew, right down to his bones, that to lose it was to risk losing her.

Sam turned to face him, forehead furrowed with concern. "It's Ellie, Dean. She won't be panicking; she'll be waiting for any opportunity."

He knew that. There wasn't another hunter he would back with more confidence to get out of almost anything that came along. Frosty and objective in the field, she was frighteningly capable, and she'd use the smallest opportunities – the most unlikely openings – that came up.

"Yeah."

It wasn't enough, but it had to be.

"I don't know how to get into the other rooms," he told his brother, taking in a deep breath. He shifted his gaze to the furthest wall, brows drawing together as he stared at the wall of bookcases. "There might be things we could use in them."

"Right," Sam said, turning away and striding across the room. He pulled the lock placement books out, hearing the mechanism's click with the final three and the long bookcase swung open.

"Why didn't Ellie come in here?" Sam wondered aloud as they walked through into the house's library.

"Guess she didn't have time."

He'd asked himself the same question. Maybe she'd known it wouldn't make a difference with Crowley's power, after he'd broken the hall traps. He should've remembered Meg, he realised. Her power had increased tenfold when she'd been in Sam. There was a possibility she'd know how Crowley'd been building his mojo.

"It's hard to imagine Crowley getting the jump on her," Sam added, glancing at him.

Dean ducked his head, letting out a gusty exhale as he pushed the door from the library to the study open and walked through. Sam was heading into territory he couldn't deal with. "Well, she's - uh – she was tired."

"Yeah." Sam said. "Of course."

Pregnant. Tired. Emotionally wrung out, he added to himself. Maybe not thinking about enemies, once she'd been here, and thought she was safe. He shut down the line of the thought and glanced around. The study looked the same as when they'd left for Kansas, and it was clear no one had made it in here. Had Crowley turned up straight after he'd left? That would be the sort of coincidence he had a problem with swallowing.

The temperature in the room dropped abruptly and he turned, shooting a questioning look at his brother.

"I, uh, brought Bobby's flask," Sam said with a shrug. "Thought we could use the help."

Bobby flickered by the open doorway, his outline translucent at first, materialising into a clear form as the temperature in the room continued to fall. The old hunter's face was shadowed by the brim of his cap as he looked around.

"Nice setup," the ghost remarked, reaching out to brush the books on the shelves. Dean saw them move, a little, as Bobby's fingers pushed at them. "Definitely Crowley. I'd recognise his stink anywhere."

"How'd he get so powerful all of a sudden?" Dean asked, frustration cracking his voice. "No way he could break through traps like that last year."

"Guess he figured some of the perks of being king," Bobby said. He fixed his gaze on the younger man. "He wants her alive, Dean. That's a good thing."

Dean turned away. He'd been telling himself the same thing, but he wasn't so sure about that.

"Sam, see if you can find her knife." He crossed the room to the printers, looking through the files stacked up there. He didn't know what he was looking for. Something. Anything that might give them an idea of where she was … and how to get her back.

Sam turned to the desk. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth as he saw the long slender knife sitting on top of a pile of opened envelopes. Only Ellie would use this knife as a letter-opener. He picked it up.

"Got it."

Turning back to the piles of papers stacked in trays on the desk, he leafed through them. "She was definitely following the same lines as Frank. These look like search results for Roman."

"Look for something to do with Crowley," Dean said. "It wasn't leviathans that broke in here."

Where the hell was he supposed to start, Sam wondered, looking at the ceiling-to-floor shelving, the stacks of files … he pivoted completely around and stared at the computer, sitting on the desk. It was as good a place as any, he thought. If he could crack her security.

Bobby moved around the room in a series of jerking flickers, the temperature around him fluctuating as he strained to pull energy from the air, the men, the furniture and walls.

A pile of books on a table next to the armchair caught his attention. They were old, the bindings broken or cracked, covers faded and worn. He drifted closer, brows rising involuntarily at the titles. There were a couple he recognised, books he'd had at his place, or had seen at Bill's, before those libraries'd been destroyed. There were several he'd never seen before.

A piece of parchment was sticking out from the book on the bottom of the pile, a massive volume with a cracked, black leather binding. Portals of the Accursed Plane, he read the title with some difficulty, the lettering mostly gone.

Now, there's a must-read, he thought, settling himself next to the pile. He reached for it, silently cursing his inability to move anything that weighed more'n a pound or two when his hands slid through the heavy books without so much as quivering them.

"Sam, need your help."

Sam looked over his shoulder at the ghost, getting up from the desk.

"What've you got?"

"These –" Bobby frowned at the books. "These are the real deal. All about Hell, s'far as I can tell. Can you open the bottom one? There's something sticking out of it."

Lifting the pile, Sam put it onto the chair. He picked up the black book, glancing at the cover, brow wrinkling up as he read the title. Flipping to the page the parchment marked, he eased the brittle sheet out. His eyes widened as he took in the densely-spaced cuneiform that filled it.

"Bobby, this is – can you read this?" he asked, putting the parchment on the top of the pile of texts for the ghost and glancing back at the pages of the book. The type in the book was as small and dense as the parchment's, but it was in English. Sort of. His breath whistled out as he took in the content.

"Mebbe," Bobby said, leaning across the armchair and squinting at the parchment. "Could be Akkadian."

Dean looked up. "You got something?"

Sam frowned at the book he held. "Did Ellie ever say anything to you about opening gates into Hell?"

Bobby drifted back to him, peering at the open pages. "Damn."

"What?" Dean crossed the room, coming to a stop beside Sam and looking over his shoulder.

"This book …" Sam shifted his grip on the heavy tome, turning it awkwardly for his brother. "It's – uh –"

"An instruction manual," Bobby cut in.

"Instruction manual? For what?"

"Getting in and out of Hell."

"What?"

"Back when Cas was the problem, when she got the summoning spell for Crowley – she told us she'd gotten it from Hell," Bobby reminded him.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. So? She was kidding."

"Mebbe not," Bobby said, gesturing at the book. "Take a look."

It was one of the memories that'd come back. One of the ones he was glad to have back. Sitting in the kitchen and reading, hearing them come down the stairs together. When they'd come into the kitchen and he'd seen how it was with them, between them, he'd been relieved. More'n relieved, he remembered. He'd been delighted. They'd sat down at the table and Dean'd handed over a summoning spell for Crowley.

It'd been like nothing he'd seen before.

"Pretty sure this is an older version of what's in that book," Bobby continued, waving a hand at the parchment sheet as Dean moved closer to Sam, reading over his brother's shoulder. "I'm bettin' it's a spell – top-shelf – to open a gate. I'd need a lot more time to translate it right, and a key for the language."

He made a concerted effort to gain more substance, frost sparkling on the pile of books, on the armchair as he extracted the energy surrounding him. Reaching out, he picked up the sheet and held it close to his face. "And a pair of damned glasses."

"Christ."

He looked over at the younger man. Dean's face was set and pale, his eyes still on the book.

"She really did get it from Hell?"

"Looks like," Bobby said. "You want to keep looking around?"

"No." Dean shook his head, taking a step back. "We'll take these with and get our asses back to the cabin. This place isn't -"

Safe. The word died in his throat. He'd thought it was. Safer than pretty much anywhere else. So had she. They'd been wrong.

"Why would Crowley want Ellie?" Bobby handed the parchment to Sam, who tucked it back into the book.

"I don't know," Dean snapped. "We haven't seen the sonofabitch since Delaware. But there were demons all over the hospital, looking for Cas."

His gaze dropped back to the black book, his face screwing up. "If she's been in and out of Hell, he could be pissed with her for some other reason."

"I didn't think a living person could get in and out of Hell." Sam looked at Bobby. "You know, um, voluntarily."

The ghost shrugged. "There's plenty of lore about it, from the beginning. Myth, legends, every culture's got their own take on the afterlife and most include some form of Heaven and some form of Hell. Not saying it's probable – or, uh, easy – but it may be possible."

Dean thought about the summoning spell for Crowley she'd brought them. "It must be possible."

MT-200, Montana

"How'd she find a way – Jesus, Dean, dozens of ways – to get into Hell?" Sam asked, frustration clear in his voice. "I searched for months – you were searching –"

Dean glanced at him. "This is what you're asking?"

He didn't want to think about her going into Hell. Didn't want to think about why she'd never told him she'd done it. Although, he admitted tersely, she had told him she'd gotten the summoning spell from Hell. He just hadn't believed her and she'd never elaborated, knowing he thought she was joking.

"It's just –" Sam stopped, his gaze cutting to the window.

"Yeah," Dean said. His little brother had tried everything he could think of, at the time. "She's got good contacts, Sam. Always did. Access to a lot more information than we ever had."

He caught his brother's scowl from the corner of his eye. "You wanna try Meg? See what she knows?"

"Yeah." Sam pulled out his cell, and dialled. Dean pressed back against the seat, chewing on the inside of one cheek.

Ellie'd found the way to destroy Lilith, when neither of them had even known much about the first demon. He recalled the files she'd brought with her. They'd been detailed and accurate, more so than he'd even suspected at the time. By getting involved that way, for them – for him – she'd drawn Heaven's attention. It didn't surprise him, especially, that she'd found a way into Hell. The Hidden Door had given him the same answers – or answers in the same ballpark, at least – when he'd gone there, searching on a way to free Sam from the Cage. What he couldn't figure was why she'd wanted a way in, in the first place.

"Not answering," Sam said after a couple of moments. "Probably interference."

Dean nodded, thinking of the red markers surrounding Rochester. Sam was likely thinking the same thing.

"You think that's where Crowley's got her?" Sam asked. "Somewhere in Hell?"

"I don't know," Dean said. There'd been another set of tyre tracks, coming and going on the gravel around the fountain. Why would a demon be using a car? To take her somewhere? Crowley'd only needed to grab her to transport her anywhere he wanted.

Could the demon take her to Hell, he wondered? In her blood and bones? It was possible, he knew. Sam'd gone into the Cage in his body. Been pulled out the same way. Cas'd had Crowley's help with that, he recalled. The books Katherine had given him had talked of gates and guides, ways to cross over to the Accursed plane in your bones, but he'd never been able to put all the necessary ingredients for the spells and rituals together – or even find most of them.

How the fuck was he going to get her out, if that's where she was?

He didn't know that either. There was too much they didn't know.

Hell

Consciousness returned slowly, along with pain, reported in increasing increments by her nervous system. Ellie kept her eyes closed, senses reaching out. There was no need to guess at her location. The overwhelming stench of brimstone was nauseating, and told her precisely where she was.

She was bound to a chair. The light, narrow bonds were cutting into her wrists and ankles where she'd leaned against them while out.

She listened, hearing nothing at first but the pounding of her pulse and the rush and sigh of her breath. Slowly, she registered other sounds in the room, and beyond it. Someone breathing heavily nearby; a strange clunking noise further away; the intermittent and utterly incongruous sound of a bell, even more distantly.

Lifting an eyelid a fraction, she took in her surroundings. She was sitting in a large room, furnished in modern, blond timber and glass, the walls cream, the wall-to-wall carpet on the floor white. She opened her other eye and lifted her head slowly, looking around.

To her right, another figure sat bound in a chair similar to her own. He faced away from her, and she could only see the broad, bent back, salt-and-pepper grey hair cut short at the back and sides. They were alone, for the moment anyway, she thought, continuing her inspection of the room.

The single door was behind her, facing the over-sized pale timber desk. The furnishings gave the room a Scandinavian flavour, and she wondered briefly if the décor reflected true personal taste or was some inside joke of Crowley's. He was on the old side to have developed a liking for Ikea.

She glanced down at the binding on her wrists and choked back a snort. Cable ties. Effective, inarguably, but a cheap solution that seemed to have entirely missed the point of psychological domination. Shrugging inwardly, she reminded herself there was no buying good taste, a sense of humour or wisdom.

The door opened behind her and she turned her head, watching two demons enter the room, followed by the crossroads demon who'd proclaimed himself the King of Hell. She wondered if he'd tell her how he'd managed that feat.

"Awake? Good." The demon's voice was bright and cheery, the educated London accent roughened by the gravelly timbre. Crowley walked to the desk and leaned against it, glancing at the two demons behind her and waving a languid hand. "I believe you two know each other."

The demons turned the chair of the other prisoner around, and he lifted his head.

"Ellie, been awhile," Frank Devereux said, trying to straighten in the chair. A couple of weeks' worth of grizzled beard covered his cheeks, jaw and throat and his eyes were pouched. "You didn't come all the way down here to check if I sent off that info, did you?"

Ellie kept her face expressionless as she looked at the dried blood and dark bruises that covered his face. She shook her head. "Nope, this is something different. How're you doing?"

"Ha. 'Bout the same as last time. An' you?"

She smiled. "Oh, you know, can't complain."

Crowley watched them, his mouth twisting. "Yeah, well, I'm sure we'd all love to catch up properly, but we're running out of time."

The cheeriness in his voice had started to get a bit forced, Ellie thought, keeping her gaze on Frank. Crowley'd been hoping for some other reaction from them. Most demons were reasonably adept in poking around in the minds of their victims. Crowley seemed less so. Because he was more focussed on himself, she wondered, not all that interested in anyone else? Or because he planned what he wanted and used any tactic to get it, not needing the information? She drew in a breath. There was one way to find out. It was likely to be a painful way.

Ellie turned back at him, and wriggled her fingers. "Cable ties, Crowley? Are you on a budget?"

Frank let out a short bark of laughter, bowing his head as he tried to cover it with a coughing fit.

The demon scowled at her. "They're effective."

"Sure. And cheap. Just not very … you know, intimidating." She smiled. "You still using that endless-waiting-in-line scenario on the first level?"

"How'd you –?" He looked at her sharply as he cut himself off. "Yeah, also effective."

"So …" She gazed critically around the room, one brow raised. "You stole the plot from an '80's comedy to run Hell, economised on … just about everything … and you did it because –?"

"Because even Hell has to move with the bloody times! It was inefficient!" Crowley shouted suddenly, his face dark and pinched up. "D'you have any idea how much time the old system took? How much energy? How many souls we needed to do everything the hard way?"

"No, no … I get it. You've turned Hell into Wal-Mart."

She let the slightest smirk curve her lips. Behind her, she heard Frank drag in an audible breath.

"But I'm wondering," she continued. "Just academically, if the souls that come down here are still being turned into demons?"

Crowley's face reddened. "I could kill you right now and still get what I need!" He strode over to her, leaning on the arms of the chair and glaring into her face. "So, don't – push – me!"

They weren't, she thought, meeting his eyes and seeing doubt in them, behind the demon's rage. His changes didn't come anywhere near close enough to providing the excruciating fear and torment required to mutilate and deform a human soul into a demon. He knew it too.

And, she realised, for some reason, he was bluffing. "If you could, I'd be dead already."

Straightening, Crowley's expression hardened. Without warning, he swung his hand at her face, the edge of the onyx ring on his finger cutting her cheek, the impact snapping her head to one side. She closed her eyes, sucking in a breath and shunting the bright pain to one side.

Whatever he needed her for, he wasn't prepared to do much damage, she thought, opening her eyes to see him swing away and stalk back to the desk. He could've broken something but he'd pulled the blow at the last second. He wanted her for something else. She sighed inwardly when she realised she'd need to keep pushing to find out what that might be.

"Where is Castiel?" He rounded the end of the desk, throwing himself into the plush leather chair behind it.

"Florida. Soaking up the rays."

Crowley tipped his head back and blew out a noisy exhale.

"Encourage them," he said to the ceiling.

One of the demons turned and hit Frank in the cheek, fist closed. The other walked to Ellie's side, fist flashing out in a low jab at her jaw. She rode the punch as much as the ties allowed, jerking her head away when she felt the knuckle touch her skin. A sharp molar edge inside her mouth cut into the inside of her cheek, and she spat out a mixture of blood and saliva onto the white carpet.

"Where's Castiel?" Crowley leaned forward, fingers steepled in front of him as he stared at her.

The gesture was familiar, she thought. Reminiscent of the late, unlamented archangel he'd been in bed with. Penemue'd told her about Crowley's negotiations with Raphael, the Watcher's disgust with his own kind evident. Apparently, even Raphael hadn't known exactly how the crossroads demon had managed to secure the throne.

"Could be he's checking out the Giant Peanut, down in Georgia. He said he always wanted to see it."

Crowley's face tightened, the pretence of calm vanishing completely.

She was treading a fine line, she acknowledged warily. He could kill her. With a snap of his fingers, if he had a mind to – or if she pushed him too hard. She knew where they were. He'd remodelled the first and second levels. She needed an opening or enough time left alone to work on the ties. Getting out might be tricky, but it was definitely do-able. There was a gate on the first level that opened in Cleveland.

She watched him force himself to sit back in the chair. Dean'd had more dealings with the demon. He'd told her Crowley's temper was unpredictable, but always flashpoint.

"Castiel is here," he said, lifting his gaze to her. "He's warded from my view, but we were – how should I put this? Close. Yeah. We were close for some time and I can feel him."

"What do you want, Crowley?"

"What do I want?" the demon repeated, leaning forward on the desk. "I want revenge. I want suffering and pain and all the things any demon wants, Ms Morgan."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," she pointed out. "So I hope you don't mind wasting your time."

The demon looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded to his lackeys.

The possessed man's fist hit her higher this time, aiming for the temple. She was expecting it, turning her head slightly and taking the blow on the arch of her brow instead. The skin split over the bone, and she blinked as a trickle of blood dripped onto her lashes, turning a little when she saw a familiar symbol in her peripheral vision.

Burned into the demon's flesh, the circle with a line through one side lay just above its wrist.

Glancing to her left, she said, "Sorry, Frank, this could get pretty tedious."

He nodded, his face expressionless. "No problem, my dinner engagement isn't until June."

Crowley looked from one to the other, the corner of his eyelid twitching slightly. He got up abruptly and walked to the door, jerking his head at the demons to follow him. At the doorway, he stopped, and turned back to her.

Showtime was finished, Ellie thought, the next round would be the real McCoy. The demon no longer seemed bright or cheerful.

"This is a long way from over," he said, staring at her. "And I will kill you."

He walked out, slamming the door shut behind him. A picture fell off the wall, and Frank barked out another nervous laugh.

"He's right about that, y'know. He can kill us both here; no one the wiser topside."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But he hasn't. Which means that he needs us both alive, for a while at least."

She rolled her neck, easing the stiffening tendons. "How'd you end up here, Frank?"

"Ah … yeah. Not quite sure. I was working surveillance on the Wisconsin site, tracking Roman's buying spree and, uh, staying out of sight, I thought. One night, four demons busted into the trailer and next thing I knew, I was here." Frank cocked an eye at the ceiling as he shrugged. "Didn't have much in the way of demon protection – or weapons. I was loaded for big-mouth."

"Crowley asked you to do anything?"

"He's looking for a way to kill the big-mouths. He thought I would be of use."

"And have you? Been useful?" She looked at him curiously.

"Not very." Frank admitted, his mouth stretching out in a humourless grin. "Not enough bandwidth down here."

Ellie laughed. "What a shame."

Frank's gaze flitted around the room. "We're in Hell, aren't we?"

"Yep."

She tensed her arm muscles, feeling how much give there was in the plastic ties. Not a lot, but she didn't need much.

"First level," she added, distractedly. "Crowley made a lot of changes when he took over."

That thought brought the question back. "Have you seen anyone else? Any other demons, I mean?"

"No." Frank shook his head. "Crowley, the two goons with him, a few others I'd say were tasked with menial work only." He tipped his head back, trying to get his glasses higher on his nose again. "Why?"

"I'd like to know how Crowley came by his title." She looked at the desk in front of her, a crease appearing between her brows. "There were more powerful demons standing next in line, a lot of them, but he seems to have managed to grab it without even having to fight."

Frank's brows rose. "That's interesting."

"Isn't it?"

"So … what's the plan?" he asked.

"We wait. Sooner or later, one of them will give us an opening." She glanced at him. "Until then, it might get a bit rough. Just so you know."

Frank sighed. "I don't work in the field, Ellie."

"You do now."

Two hours later.

Ellie made a face at the vivid red lines on her wrists. She'd gotten about all the stretch she could from the plastic ties. She could move her hands around a little, and she thought she'd be able to slide them out if she had to. Her ankles were easier, the high edge of her boots taking the brunt of straining against the thin plastic. There was enough room to twist them now, though she'd need her hands free first.

She'd kept Frank talking. Not about their current situation, but of what they'd been doing for the last few years. Inconsequential talk that was more restful than speculation on the present. She didn't want to burn up her energy or Frank's.

When the door opened again, she tensed, bracing her wrists against the arms of the chair, but Crowley appeared to have regained control of his temper and the demons that accompanied him stood beside the chairs without offering further violence.

"You know, I kept most of the lower levels just the way they were when Alastair was still with us," the crossroads demon said, his tone conversational as he brushed a speck of lint from his suit and examined his fingernails. "There's a lovely cavern on three that'll be just right for what I need now. I do believe in the value of a good dramatic set."

Ellie felt Frank's glance on her. "How'd you get here, Crowley?"

He raised a brow at her, smiling slowly. "You mean my promotion? I had no idea you cared."

"You worked for Lilith, didn't you?"

"I did indeed," the demon said. "It was a great disappointment to find out what Lucifer had in store for her – and the rest of us."

"So, what happened?"

He shook his head regretfully. "Too long a story for the time we have available. I'll tell you what, though. If this doesn't work out exactly the way it should, I'll give you chapter and verse while I'm flaying the skin from your flesh."

Beside her, Frank grunted. "If what doesn't work?"

The demon laughed. "Now, that would spoil the surprise. You can come along too, Frank. Stretch your legs."

He nodded at the guards. The cable ties were cut, and the demons jerked them to their feet.

Ellie staggered slightly as she stood, letting her weight fall onto the demon who gripped her arm. He caught her easily, pushing her away and attaching a loose cord between her wrists.

Very strong, she filed away the information. Crowley and the two demons were holding them within a loose triangle. There was nothing much she could do to take all three out and get Frank out of the room ahead of her. Something better would turn up.

They walked out of the room and down a pale green corridor, passing hundreds of souls waiting patiently in lines. Ellie rolled her eyes at the infinite queue. Crowley's face pinched up as he saw the gesture, but he said nothing.

At the end of the corridor, a pair of metal doors slid open, revealing an elevator car. The last time she'd been here, she'd had to take a winding staircase down to the lower levels, every step hewn from the rock by tormented souls. She wondered how many souls had been drained to non-existence in order to create the bureaucratic hell Crowley was so keen on.

Pushed into the car ahead of the three demons, she stopped at the back wall and stood beside Frank. The older man was sweating, but calm. The doors closed with a sigh and Crowley stabbed a fingertip at one of the buttons on the panel, turning to face her as the elevator started to descend.

"Word is you and Dean Winchester are quite the item."

Was that why he thought she'd have the information he needed, she wondered?

She gave a careless shrug. "You don't beat your informants often enough, Crowley. That was over months ago. He slept with someone else."

She felt Frank's twitch of surprise beside her. Crowley pursed his lips.

"Really? Well, there's no accounting for taste." He smiled at her. "Funny then that you were seen driving across country with him, only two short days ago."

"That was a case, and I wasn't there by choice."

"You're an excellent liar, and trust me, I'm a connoisseur in that area, but somehow I don't believe you." Crowley stared at the numbers blinking one by one in descending order above the doors. There were nine levels, or more accurately, dimensions, to Hell, Ellie thought. The numbers went from one to forty.

Keeping her gaze on the doors, Ellie said, "That's your prerogative."

"Yes. It is." The elevator stopped at thirty-five and the doors opened, Crowley's lackeys exiting and waiting to either side.

"After you," Crowley said, waving a hand at the doors.

Ellie stepped out into a cavern of black rock and dim reddish light, flames licking at the edge of sulphur pools, and chains and hooks hanging from vast metal nets, strung high above the ground.

"I see the Swedish decorator hasn't made it this far down," she remarked, feeling the uneven ground beneath her feet, her gaze taking in the details of the place. Behind her, she heard Frank's sharply indrawn breath end on a small gargle.

"No, this is all just as it was under the previous management." Crowley pointed to two rock pillars a few yards away. "Hang her up on those."

The two demons moved closer, each taking an arm and Ellie walked unhurriedly between them, mentally clocking into overdrive as possibilities occurred to her, were reviewed, discarded or retained.

Behind her, she heard Frank say disbelievingly, "What is this? Some kind of torture thing?"

"Oh, yeah, some kind," Crowley chuckled.

It was far from ideal, she thought, but she had the feeling she wouldn't get a better chance than this. She hoped Frank wouldn't freeze. Both demons had the same mark on their wrists. A binding sigil. It looked like Crowley was less in control of Hell than he tried to make out. The only problem with binding demons to the flesh of their meatsuits, she knew, was that when the meatsuit lost its head, the demon inside was trapped. And helpless.

As they reached the pillars, she threw herself hard against the demon to her left, hooking her foot around its leg and bringing it down, scrambling on top of it, her fingers closing around one of the grapefruit-sized loose rocks on the ground and pounding it against the demon's skull. Bone fractured, and with the second hit, a spray of blood erupted, spattering the side of her face.

The other demon had swung toward her and she rolled off fast, swinging her arms up and over the fallen demon's head and dragging the cord that looped between her wrists tightly around its neck. She crouched behind it, her knee against its back, the cord biting deeply into the throat, the demon gurgling and thrashing wildly, flopping to stillness when the improvised garrotte severed windpipe and arteries.

Yanking the cord clear of its head, Ellie scuttled backwards, letting the body fall to the rock at her feet. The second demon was circling her, warily now, perhaps understanding the meaning of the brand on its own body, or just making an assessment of an opponent, she didn't know. It didn't matter.

She pivoted slowly in place until the far rock pillar was behind her, then turned and ran, sprinting for the column and drawing it after her. Scanning the open ground ahead, she saw the smooth slab of rock near the base of the towering pillar. She could feel her pursuer closing, no more than five or six feet behind her now and she sucked in a deep breath, diving to the ground, forearms taking her weight as she drew her legs up tightly and slammed them out. The demon overran her and her boot soles connected solidly with its chest, on and below the ribs; the mule kick combining her weight and the kinetic energy of its arrested motion.

It made a deep grunting noise, rising and flying backwards several feet. She was on her feet and turning as it landed, hearing the whooping outrush of air from its lungs. Holding the bloodied cord in both hands, she dropped into a slide, her foot striking the side of its head as it tried to get to its feet. She swung the cord out, the loop settling around its neck and rolled to her knees.

Unexpectedly, she was in the air before her senses could register the change, rising fast, her arms pulled out to either side, shoulder joints stretched. The cord around her wrists tore away, left hanging from the demon's neck, and she was flung higher and backwards toward the two stone columns, unable to move or breathe.

She stopped abruptly in mid-air, her head whipping forward and back, suspended between the pillars. From the corners of her eyes, she saw the heavy bronze shackles to either side of her, snaking up on their chains like malevolent, living things. The shackles clicked shut around her wrists and ankles and the power holding her – Crowley's power – vanished without warning. The chains snapped taut, the shackles cutting deep into flesh as they took her weight and she bit back the scream that rose up her throat.

The crossroads demon strolled over, tilting his head as he studied her. "I have to say, I'm impressed. Although, what you thought you were going to do about me, I can't imagine."

Drawing in a deep breath, she managed to keep her voice even. "I'm sure something would have occurred."

"Yeah. See, now that I believe." He turned away and kicked at the demon's body. "I knew it was a mistake to bind them. Still, no great loss."

He glanced at the other demon, still lying on the ground and clutching at its neck. "Get off your lazy arse and get rid of this rubbish."

The demon rolled onto its knees and staggered to its feet, grasping an arm of the expired meatsuit and pulling it away. Crowley turned back to Ellie.

"What were you doing with Winchester?" Crowley asked, his gaze dropping to study the ring on his finger. He looked up when she didn't respond straight away. "The two of you drove down to Kansas."

"He needed to see a psychic," she said, wondering why the demon wanted Dean. More leverage to find the angel? It seemed the likeliest reason.

Crowley grinned. "To tell him he's going to be a daddy? I mean, that's his kid you've got in there, isn't it?"

The words, delivered casually, hit her like a sledgehammer and Ellie stared at him, her heartbeat accelerating wildly. She looked down at him, trying to keep the shock out of her face, to keep the unexpected surge of panic from shutting down her ability to think.

"No."

"No?" The demon tilted his head, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "You mean, he doesn't know about that? Or it's not his?"

"Both," she said. He didn't want to kill her, she reminded herself desperately. Not yet, anyway. There was a reason for that and it was still applicable.

"Not quite the ring of truth, Eleanor," Crowley said, chuckling. "Try again."

"You're right," she said. "Cas is alive."

"Really?" The smile widened. "Rethought your position?"

"He was badly injured, from the souls and the levis and cut off from Heaven."

"Keep going." Crowley's eyes narrowed. "Where is he?"

"In Egypt." She dropped her gaze, thinking fast. "He's with a Watcher. That's why you can't see him."

The demon turned away, hands pushing into his coat pockets. He paced slowly across the rough ground. Ellie watched him turn back, walking past Frank.

"You might be telling the truth," Crowley allowed, stopping beneath her and tipping his head back. "Unfortunately, it'll take me a couple of days to verify that story, something I'm certain you already knew."

"Crowley –"

"Yeah, yeah, spare me the hearts and flowers," he cut her off, his gaze flicking around the cavern. "Under most conditions, physical torture is overrated, of course. Flesh and blood can only stand so much."

He glanced back at her. "And I've heard you have all sorts of mental tricks up your sleeves to circumvent most of the effects?"

Heard from who, she wondered?

"Of course you do," the demon said, nodding to himself when she didn't answer. "But, happily in this case, it's not really you I'll be torturing."

He smiled and walked over to a rock outcropping a few feet away. Drawing an ornate gold-backed mirror from his jacket pocket, the demon polished it for a few minutes with his sleeve and set it down on the outcropping, adjusting it until Ellie could distantly see herself in it.

Crowley glanced at Frank and snapped his fingers. "Take a seat, Frank."

Behind Frank a chair appeared. He sat down slowly and Crowley waved a hand at him, cable ties appearing around Frank's wrists and ankles and cinching themselves tight.

He turned back to Ellie. "I'll make you a deal," he said. "This time, I'll take it easy. No need to fret about your offspring. All you need to do is keep singing the same tune."

He wasn't kidding, she thought, her gaze shifting to the mirror. "I've told you everything I know."

"So you say," Crowley agreed with an amiable nod. He snapped his fingers and a stainless steel cart appeared beside him, covered by a white cloth.

"So, now we're all comfortable, we're going to do the torture thing."

Kalispell, Montana

Dean pulled into the gas station and found an open pump immediately. He filled the tank and replaced the nozzle, pulling out his wallet as he headed into the store. There were two people waiting ahead of him at the counter, and he turned away, looking around at the shelving and displays absently, deciding he needed another coffee to keep going. His jaw was aching with the effort of keeping his thoughts locked down and he didn't think he'd get any sleep, even if he could find the time to try.

He'd burn out in about four hours at this rate, he acknowledged tiredly as he found the coffee machine and poured himself a take-out cup.

"Dean, what a coincidence. Fancy a chat?"

The familiar voice came from behind him and he turned slowly, knowing who stood there. Crowley beamed at him, the black Savile Row suit uncreased and beautifully tailored.

Weariness evaporated with the surge of anger, flushing through his veins like acid. In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of his brother entering the store, Sam's head turning this way and that, but he kept his eyes locked on the demon.

"Sonofabitch."

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Where is she?"

Ruby's knife was in the trunk of the car, he realised, hands curling into fists, along with three or four angel swords, any of which would've done the job satisfactorily. There was no way to get any of them. And even if he could, he acknowledged in frustration, killing Crowley now wouldn't help him find Ellie. The demon might've bargained for his life, but he wouldn't've left her where they could find her easily.

The demon's gaze shifted past him, Crowley inclining his head.

"Moose, always a pleasure."

"Crowley, this time –" Sam's voice was low and hard, somewhere behind his right shoulder.

"Tsk, now, now." The demon flapped a dismissive hand at him and turned back to Dean.

"Where is she?" Dean repeated, setting his jaw. He wasn't going to ask a third time.

"Really, Dean, you sound concerned." The King of Hell lifted a mocking brow. "And Eleanor was so careful to explain that you two were finis."

"Cut the crap."

What was it with monsters and demons they couldn't just say what they'd come to say and then shut the fuck up?

"What, and miss out on a splendid round of repartee with you? Ah, well, perhaps you're right, never as much fun when you're in one of those moods." He pulled a flat object from his jacket pocket, and held it out. "This should answer all your pressing questions."

Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Relax, it's just a receiver," Crowley said. "Just putting all our cards on the table."

The object was a mirror, about the size of a hardback novel, trimmed ornately in gold. He took it gingerly, glancing back at the King of Hell.

Crowley looked like the cat that ate the canary and the cream, he thought, an expression he'd learned to associate with the demon's self-satisfaction at his own plans. Whatever it was, it was going to be bad.

Unwillingly, he dropped his gaze, tilting the mirror and raising it slightly as images swam together and broke apart on the dark surface, slowly coming into focus.

It looked like a cavern, somewhere underground, he thought as the image became clearer. Two tall pillars of rock filled the centre. Between them …

The image sharpened, and he jerked back in reaction when it zoomed in closer, the details leaping at him, the colours vivid and acute.

Time slowed down and then stopped as his mind registered what he was seeing.

… she was hung between the columns, suspended by her arms from long chains, her wrists and ankles enclosed in thick metal cuffs, the mirror's detail showing the raw skin under the metal, the way it cut into her skin … her hair had been pulled loose, hanging in tangled clumps over her face and shoulders, shiny and matted here and there, stuck in the wounds on her face, on her arms … her shirt and jeans shredded, the tattered edges stained in varying shades of red, brighter where the blood flowed, darker where it'd dried … bruises lay like ink stains on her skin, emphasising the swelling, over cheekbone and jaw, around her joints … cuts and abrasions glared brightly between them, raw and bleeding, crusting over … blood dripped to the floor, each droplet distinct and discrete, impossibly reflecting black rock and trembling flames … he saw her chest, rising and falling slowly, interrupted every few seconds by the trembling that wracked through her slight frame …

He raised his gaze, the tendons in his neck creaking with the effort, and looked into the demon's eyes.

He couldn't feel anything. Not his fingers, curled around the edges of the mirror, not his pulse; not the movement of his breath or the temperature of the air surrounding him, not the floor under his feet.

Behind him, he heard his brother gasp, and it broke through the silence and emptiness, the world snapping back into place around him, his senses reeling and a blind fury crackling through his nervous system.

She's alive, he snarled at himself. Stay on that. Don't think about the rest. She's still alive.

"I'll kill you, Crowley."

He didn't realise he'd spoken until the words were out, the demon's expression pursing in an unconvincing facsimile of sympathy.

"Change the record, Dean." Crowley's gaze flickered from Dean's face down to the reflected images and back. "I realise it's a shock, but let's just get this straight before anyone goes off the deep end."

He cleared his throat, glancing at Sam and turning back to Dean. "After the last … well, let's just call it the unfortunate incident … with your, uh, previous ex-girlfriend, I thought I'd make myself clearer this go-round. It's a simple enough deal, even you two should be able to understand it. I'll keep carving pieces until you hand over our mutual, feathered acquaintance."

"Cas is dead, you bastard," Sam grated.

Dean stared at the demon, jaw tight. Where'd Crowley been getting his intel?

"I don't really have to go through this again, do I?" Crowley shook his head at Sam, his expression pained. "Castiel is very much alive, and I know that you know where he is."

"Of course," he continued. "If Ms Morgan wasn't lying, and it's true you don't care about her … well, I'll just keep slicing and dicing until I get to the little bundle of joy she's carrying, and find someone else to help me find the angel." He glanced back at the mirror Dean held, letting out a deep, theatrical sigh. "Your ex has been a major pain in my arse for years and, to be frank, I'd welcome the chance to chop her into little pieces to feed the hounds."

… slicing and dicing until I get to the little bundle of joy she's carrying … something convulsed inside and a shudder, alternating in flushes of torrid heat and bitter cold, rippled through him. For the second time in as many minutes, he couldn't move, couldn't think past the screaming rage that blotted everything else out.

He barely noticed his brother's hand, curling around his arm.

Crowley glanced at Sam's hand, lifting his gaze to Dean's face, the expression of surprise on his face as patently manufactured as the sympathy'd been.

"Oh, you knew about her delicate condition?" Crowley asked, a smirk curving the thin mouth. "She tell you it's not yours?"

It was like trying to hold a gorilla.

The thought flashed through Sam's mind as he felt his brother's arm contract and harden to steel under his fingers. He tried to tighten his grip but he wasn't quick enough. The mirror clattered to the floor and Dean'd crossed the couple of feet separating him from the demon, leaving him grasping at thin air. He saw his brother's hands crush the lapels of the suit Crowley wore as he lifted the demon and shoved him backward, caught a glimpse of his brother's face, teeth bared in a rictus of fury, Dean's eyes narrowed and seeing nothing but the demon he held.

Crowley froze, blanking out completely as he stared into the man's eyes. Dark green and ferocious, they brought the rumours he'd heard of Dean's time down in the pit back in full force, his meatsuit's heart stumbling in his chest, his mouth drying out.

For an unknown number of seconds, he forgot he was the King of Hell, forgot his power, forgot everything as a wave of fear roared through him, holding him pathetically helpless, nothing but prey for the savage predator in front of him. The hands at his throat closed harder, and dots and sparkles appeared in front of him, conscious of the way his mouth was opening and closing but unable to stop it.

He was gasping for air when memory finally returned and with it, control. Lifting his hand, the power that flowed into him and through him from Hell plucked the hunter from his person and threw Dean back against the display behind him with enough force to knock the heavy shelving over. He swung his hand at the other Winchester as Sam lunged for him, sending him careening and staggering sideways across the aisle into another row of shelves.

This is what happens when power comes late in life; the demon thought in annoyance as he tried to tug the creases from his wrinkled suit coat and brushed ineffectively at the mangled lapels. You forget that you have it and the little habits of a lifetime take over.

Dean rolled onto his side, pushing off the shelving to get to his feet.

Like a fucking Timex, Crowley thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched the hunter's face twist up with fresh determination.

"You wanna see what agony really is, Dean?" he rasped, his hand flashing up and curling into a fist.

Dean's eyes widened, his body held immobile by the demon's grip. His mouth thinned out, jaw muscle jumping into prominent relief and sweat sheening his face as he fought to get free.

Crowley stabbed a finger at him. "Try this."

Watching the man's eyes roll up until only the whites were showing, the demon smiled slowly. Dean's body, partly suspended above the floor, twitched and jerked involuntarily as the images hit him.

The three shots Sam fired hit Crowley in the arm, chest and neck. "Stop it!"

Turning his head, the King of Hell brushed at his suit, the holes disappearing as his fingers passed over them. "You really thought that'd work?"

"Wha-what – are you doing to him?" Sam stared at his brother and Crowley shrugged.

"Teaching him a lesson. In pain," the demon said. "Seems to be the only thing you morons understand."

"What?"

"Oh, stop your damned fussing, Moose." Crowley glanced at him irritably. "It'll wear off."

"Let him go."

"Gladly." Crowley flicked his wrist and the older Winchester flew backwards, landing in a boneless sprawl over the already-downed shelves. He turned to Sam, digging in his pocket.

"You have two days to bring the angel here," he said, drawing out a sheet of paper and letting it flutter to the floor. "You can tell your brother he can have her back in a reasonable condition if he does what he's told. If he doesn't … well, he'll know what happens if he doesn't."

Bending to retrieve the mirror, he glanced briefly into it, smiling at the images it showed. The temptation to leave it with them was strong, but he didn't think it was worth it. He very much doubted if either of them would deliberately look into it again.

"Crowley, Cas is dead," Sam said. "You need our help with the –"

"He's not dead." Glancing at the tall hunter, the demon shook his head. "And you two have proved yourselves singularly bloody useless when it comes to those anachronistic monsters. I'll deal with them myself."

There was a soft pop as the air rushed in to fill the space the demon had left.

Sam rubbed the side of his head, wincing as he pressed too hard against a tender spot. He picked up the sheet of paper Crowley had left, stuffing it into his coat pocket and turned to his brother.

Dean lay across the shelving, his eyes closed and a sticky patch of blood seeping out from behind his head.

"Dean?" Sam knelt beside him, one hand lifting an eyelid; the pupil in the green iris contracted as the light hit it. Sam let the lid drop and rested his fingertips against Dean's neck. There was a pulse, beating irregularly, fast and then slow, then speeding up again. He lifted his brother's head, seeing the shallow split in the scalp and probing lightly along it. No fracture. Just a good, old-fashioned knock.

"C'mon, man, wake up."

His brother's eyelids fluttered a couple of times, then opened slowly. Straightening, Sam closed his hand around Dean's, leaning back to pull him to his feet. Once upright, he swayed unsteadily and Sam reached out, grabbing his arm and looking closely at him. He felt his stomach drop.

Dean's face was paper white, his eyes an almost luminous green, fixed ahead and focussed on nothing.

"Dean?" Sam snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face. He didn't even get an eyeblink. It was more than just shock, he thought. The demon'd done something, put something into Dean's head. It'll wear off, he'd said. He pushed a little and Dean took a step forward, stumbling slightly but moving.

Goddamnit, he thought, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and trying to guide the both of them back through the free-standing shelves to the register. He was starting to wonder if Dean was right about not being allowed to have anything of his own. Crowley'd picked exactly the worst time to fuck him over.

"T-t-take whatever you w-want!" the clerk behind the counter stammered, peering past Sam into the aisles behind him. "I don't want to die."

Sam looked at him blankly. "What?"

"The cops are on their way, just take what you want and leave."

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Sam nodded and gave Dean another push, heading for the door. Ray'd just finished wiping out their history, and now they'd be on the Wanted posters again.

His grip tightened to keep his brother upright as Dean's feet stuttered over the low lip in front of the store. He is walking, sort of, Sam thought, getting him over to the car, but he wasn't there. Wrenching open the passenger door, he manhandled his brother into the seat.

Some kind of spell, he thought again, striding around the vehicle and sliding into the driver's seat. What the hell had Crowley shoved into his brother's head?

Crowley'd made it clear he had plenty of reasons to kill Ellie. The demon wasn't just using her as leverage to get them to bring Cas to him, but that was his primary reason and he wouldn't consider her expendable until he had the angel.

He started the engine and pulled out of the station, speeding up as they cleared the town's limits, driving fast back to the cabin.

Whitefish, Montana

"Bobby, need your help," Sam called out as he got Dean into the cabin. The temperature plummeted in the large room and Bobby fritzed and flickered in front of them, becoming solid-looking in seconds.

"What happened?" He looked at Dean's face.

"Crowley showed up. He wants to trade Ellie for Cas." Sam pushed Dean into a chair at the table. "He's been, uh … torturing her. He had a mirror … and um, we could see her in the mirror."

"Shock?" Bobby asked, his expression twisting into a grimace.

"I don't think so," Sam said, looking around for the whiskey bottle. "Dean attacked him and he did something to him, like a spell or something – said it'd wear off. I, uh, think he's seeing something, something in his head."

"That sonofabitch."

"What?" Sam saw the bottle and crossed the room to grab it.

"Yeah, it's a spell," the ghost said. "Balls. Sam, forget the whiskey for a minute. Get down to the basement, we need powdered mandrake, nightshade, iron filings and salt. Should be some blood in a Mason jar in the old fridge down there. We gotta make a protective circle around Dean; break the loop he's in."

The basement, Sam thought, heading for the narrow wooden door under the stairs. The boxes they'd gotten from Bobby's place appeared in his mind's eye, left where they'd stacked them, against the far wall.

He hurried back up to the living room with the bags and jar, dumping them on the table, and pushing the table and rug aside to clear a space around his brother.

"What's he seeing?" he asked, straightening to pour the couple of pints of blood into a bowl.

"Nothing good," Bobby said. "Use about a handful of each, not so important how much as it is they're all there."

Nothing good, Sam thought as he scooped the ingredients out of the bags and into the bowl. "How long does it last, if we don't do this?"

"Hard to say." The ghost hovered in front of Dean. "A lot of it depends on the, uh, victim's mental strength. Stronger they are, worse it is, longer it lasts."

"What?"

Bobby threw him a sardonic look. "Demonic spells are like that, son. They get most of their juice from whoever they're targeting."

It was, Sam thought, another instance of not knowing enough about enough. He used the thick, birch-twig brush to mix the filings, herbs and salt into a paste.

"What'm I drawing?"

"Just a circle," Bobby told him. "Iron and salt should break the connection to the demon. Mandrake and nightshade can be used to strengthen illusions or to break them. Mixed up with the goat's blood, they'll break them."

Nodding distractedly, Sam took the bowl and knelt on the floor, dipping the brush into the viscous liquid and smearing it over the cabin floor, working his way backwards around his brother.

When he closed the circle, he looked up as Dean jerked against the chair, fever spots flushing his brother's cheeks.

"Dean?"

He was shaking, he realised, the chair legs shuddering on the wooden floor. Sam pushed the bowl aside and got to his feet, clamping one hand on his brother's shoulder. "Dean?"

Dean grunted, his eyes screwing shut then flying open. He tipped his head back, his throat working as he swallowed hard.

"Shock," Bobby said. "You find that whiskey?"

Sam let go of his brother reluctantly and stepped away, taking a glass from the table and pouring a couple of inches.

He pressed the glass into his brother's hand. Dean looked down at it for a long moment, then lifted it, gulping the amber liquid down in a couple of swallows. The glass thudded on the table top and Sam pulled it from his brother's shaking hand.

"Dean?" Sam turned to look at the ghost. "Is he still, uh, trapped?"

Bobby shook his head.

"No. Hot coffee." The spirit jerked his head toward the kitchen counter. "Lots of it and strong enough to stand a spoon in."

Sam nodded and turned away.

Dean could hear them, but their voices were a long way off, indistinct and unimportant. The images had gone, shattered and fragmented. He was free of them and he could see the cabin's interior, see the ghost hovering close by, his brother moving around and doing something.

He drew in a breath, his stomach rolling over queasily again. The images were gone but the memories of them were still there, crowding at the edges of consciousness, waiting for him. A shiver snaked down his spine as he realised he was scared to close his eyes.

Bobby hovered in front of the hunter, reaching out tentatively, the tips of his fingers brushing over Dean's cheek.

"Dean."

Dean's gaze didn't move. He was staring at the cabin's open door sightlessly, statue-still apart from an occasional blink.

"C'mon, son, come back," Bobby said. "Got work to do. What d'we do next?"

Dean dropped his gaze to the table top. "What?"

"What do we do next, son?" Bobby repeated patiently, the air growing colder around him as he struggled to manifest more solidly.

It was damned hard work being a ghost. He was getting the hang of it, slowly, but he kept stumbling over the recognition that he couldn't touch the boys again, couldn't give them the strength of his arms or his back again. It hurt, in a way he hadn't imagined it would.

Dean lifted his head to look at him, wetting his lips. Focus gradually returned to the green eyes, and they filled with shadows.

Watching the fleeting expressions twitch and spasm in the hunter's face, Bobby's chest tightened. It was ridiculous for a ghost to feel pain in his chest, he thought irritably, that feeling getting worse as Dean shook his head.

The gesture was too familiar. He'd seen it too many times. Dean wanted to deny it all, pretend it hadn't happened, but he couldn't. His innate honesty made it difficult, if not downright impossible, to lie to himself, no matter how hard he tried.

"Ya gotta deal with it, Dean," he said, unwillingly. Deal with whatever the demon had planted in his melon? Things that'd undoubtedly been focussed on extracting the most pain possible from the younger man? He didn't even know what he was asking Dean to deal with.

Sam put a cup of hot, black coffee in front of his brother, glancing at Bobby.

"What d'we do next, Dean?" Bobby said again.

He watched him draw in a deep breath, saw the wide chest filling and expanding and lifting, and falling again.

"We kill the sonofabitch," Dean said, voice thickened and hoarse.

"Right."

What they'd need, he thought, was a diversion. Something to take the demon's mind off what all the players were doing. He wondered how many hunters the boys would be able to call in.

"We're gonna need help." Bobby turned away from the table, trying to pull his missing memories back by force. Sometimes it worked. "We ain't gonna last five minutes if Crowley has the slightest suspicion of what we're doing."